


The Table

by TangyPeach



Category: Political RPF
Genre: Foreign aid, Insinuations of on-and-off relationship, M/M, Mentions of assassination, Weird Syrian-Russian power dynamic, fast-paced, quickie sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangyPeach/pseuds/TangyPeach
Summary: Al-Assad loves Putin and Putin "loves" Bashar.Is this the extent of their quickies or is there more than meets the eye?Tune in next time to find out.
Relationships: Bashar al-Assad/Vladimir Putin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	The Table

**Author's Note:**

> A lil something I wrote a month ago for the hell of it.  
> Plunging into Political RPF after taking a year's-long hiatuses.  
> This is most definitely one of the more fast-paced political rpf fanfics i've made.

Sochi, Russia.

⠀ 

⠀ 

Vladimir Putin was preparing for very this moment.  


A grinning Bashar Al Assad walked down the red carpet, smiling more than his face could handle: the face of complete & utter joy.  


Albeit, a rare emotion for the Syrian.  


"I missed you." Bashar said quietly, the doors closing in on them.  


"As you should." Putin feigned over-confidence, and Bashar laughed.  


"How long were you waiting for me, Mr. Putin?"  
"Oh, not too long," Putin glanced over Bashar's tall shoulder, checking to see if they were truly alone.  


Knowing Putin's history as a spy, he was a tad apprehensive. Perhaps he didn't have utmost assurance, but he knew for a fact no one would be bothering them for a long, long time.  


"How are you? How's your citizens?" Putin questioned, quirking an almost non-existent brow.  


"Oh, wow, they're great. All because of you of course."  


"Good, how about yourself? Keeping safe?"  


"Yes, yes..." Bashar murmured, chuckling awkwardly. "I'm still breathing, aren't I?"  


"I worry about you, Bashar." Putin smirked, although deadpan, showing a rare sign of sentiment. "People threaten you with no consequences. Of course, I don't care if they do it to me, but its you that I'm worried for."  


Bashar's cordiality broke, moving closer to the smaller man as he grew more visibly apprehensive-- and if Bashar bent his neck any more, his thinly neck would probably snap. "Uhm.. I'm fine, truly, but... even I doubt my security at times. If it happened to Saddam, then Gaddafi, then of course I should worry as well."  


"You know I would never let such a thing happen to you, Bashar." Putin reassured, putting a hand to the man's nape.  


Bashar hardly felt this action too close for comfort-- in fact, it relaxed Bashar all-the-more.  


"Yes.... I know." Bashar said, more softly than before-- finding the courage to finally look straight into Putin's blue eyes.  


Putin slowly rubbed the back of his neck, and Bashar melted in his touch-- almost melting psychically as his stature lowered-- Putin pulling the Syrian down to embrace him-- more intimately this time.  


Their faces connected-- and Putin knew he had Bashar then and now, causing the Syrian to shudder as Putin delicately sucked on his lower lip.  


"You like my table?" Putin suddenly intoned, and Bashar pulled his face away to look at table in question-- the oblong, golden long-table that they were supposed to have dinner on.  


"Yes it is... very long." Bashar commented, confused by its significance.  


"That it is..." Putin nodded. "Lie down on it."

  
Bashar gasped as he felt the cold surface hit his face, his cheek-- and then he heard shuffling behind him-- and whatever it was Putin did to prepare himself-- (he couldn't quite pinpoint the sounds) he surely knew how to make Bashar anticipate.  
Putin was prepared for anything, afterall.  


Bashar lay on his stomach, his feet touching the floor as his palms lay flat against the marble-- in the readiest position he'd ever be.  
Putin, as Bashar was told, would have gotten well-acquainted with this said-table in no time.  


Soon, Bashar's pants dropped to his ankles, and he chuckled nervously as he felt a strong hand push down on his back.  


"You might feel... a little hot." Putin said, his Russian twang somewhat adding threat to his voice.  


"Please." Bashar begged, suddenly feeling disorientated against the table. "Please," He said (lisped) again, not quite sure what he was asking for, but feeling almost undignified to resort to such a state.  


"What, what was that?" Putin said, feigning his confusion as he pressed up his crotch against the taller man's entrance, not yet penetrating. "What are you even begging from me? Hm?"  
"Take me." Bashar coughed out, his hands shaking from holding himself in such an awkward position.  
"Take me away from all of this stress, Vladimir..."  


"If that is what you wish, Bashar." Putin hummed, pushing his lubed member into Bashar's most desired-- merely by an inch.

"ya 'iilhi , allaenat ya allaena .." Bashar cried silently, muffled against the hard surface as he cursed himself into a mess-- feeling his body bounce against the table ever so gently.  
Putin admired the view of Bashar's arching back (ignoring the restraints of his constricting jacket)-- the Syrian's dainty frame flinching at just about the slightest movements-- and even the Russian could tell just how the sensitive Bashar was to all of this. It made Putin all-the-more patient-- and although Putin was tempted to go all the way, the Russian was a master of restraint and did no such thing.

"..hmmph." Putin groaned slightly, feeling the tight squeeze of his member as he pulled out the tip. "You're quite tight, aren't you?"  


Bashar sharply inhaled the moment Putin experimentally pushed in again, the Syrian managing to choke out his response: "Shut...up."  


"You want me to go deeper?" Putin inquired as he patted Bashar's bottom-- eliciting further arousal from Bashar's core.  


"Y-yes. God, yes, I-"  


"-I wouldn't want to break you, Bashar." Putin's voice was heavily laced with concern, coyly rubbing his lean backside.  


"You can be rough with me. I don't care." Bashar whined against the table; which then Putin then commanded:  


"If that's so, put your arms behind your back. That's an order."  


Bashar hesitantly did just that, and Putin gripped Bashar's wrists, holding them together-- he then wrapped some thread around them, still holding them in his grip as he then said; "You know, it helps to breath through your nose, Bashar."  


Bashar didn't know how Putin even managed to get thread of all things, but he shouldn't have underestimated how utmost /prepared/ Putin was for any situation.  


"Yes, Vladimir." Bashar agreed resiliently, groaning at the way it nearly bruised his skin.  


"So, you want me to be rough?" Putin challenged, climbing onto the sturdy table alongside Bashar to get closer to him. "I find it very hard to man-handle such a kind, gentle man such as yourself, because I don't think you deserve it." Putin then grabbed Bashar's hair-- not harshly but feigning it-- the Syrian's hair curling around his fingers as he guided the Syrian to crane his neck up-- causing him to groan again.  


"However, I do want you to get the most pleasure out of this, since I adore you that much. I want you to think of it as a gift from me to you."

Putin knelt off the table, sizing up the hand-tied Bashar Al Assad in all his glory.  


"One question before we continue..." Bashar suddenly asked and Putin tilted his head. "Listening."  


"Why are we screwing on a table where people eat on?"  


Vladimir chuckled: "Who says I intended to eat on it?"  


⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀ 

With that, Vladimir grabbed the lube again, sheathing himself liberally with enough (a type that heated up in his hands) and positioned himself against Bashar-- feeling the man brace himself.  
Putin slid in more easily: smirking as felt Bashar hug around his cock again.  


Bashar was balling his fists, biting his lip in hopes he wouldn't catch himself screaming again.  


Putin pushed himself until his crotch hit flush against Bashar's rump-- to the hilt.  


Great. It sounded like Putin had overdone it from the bleak silence alone.  
Putin craned his neck to gauge a reaction, and it was clear as day that the Syrian's mouth hung open-- looking completely stupefied. With that, Putin pulled all the way out again.  


"Ahhhhhh.." Bashar exhaled.  


"How.. Are you bearing?" Putin asked groggily, hardly bearing himself.  


"Fuck.." Was all Bashar could say, head kowtowing as his whole core shook, trying to compensate for the man who he admired-- the man he owed his entire life to.  


"I-I don't know if I can take it aftercall, but I'll try for you.. Anything for you. " Bashar gleamed weakly.  


"We can stop anytime you'd like." Said Putin, checking his watch.  


Bashar chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching: "I'm not in complete pain, if that's what you're wondering."  


Putin rubbed a hand over his own thinly, baby-thin hair-- trying to figure out why exactly he decided to fuck his dictator friend on a pretentious dinner table for none other than his own sexually repressed reasons. The Russians forehead was laden in sweat, and he sighed at the fact.  


"If this is what you want, I won't stop." Putin said in his most forced-friendly voice.  


Bashar simply gave him a thumbs up from his tied wrists in agreeance-- and Putin smirked again.  


Putin lowered his hips, taking his entire length outside of him and then re-entered again.  


Bashar cried out again, swearing and cursing in a deep tone, his tied up hands wriggling just above his head. Putin then pressed his whole body against Bashar's-- admiring the Syrian's clean scent-- embracing his waist and quickly lowered his hands to give him the attention where he needed most - - that cock of his. It twitched to the touch-- precum spilling over his hand as Bashar groveled.  
That was it.

Swearing every damn word Arabic alphabet (fuck, shit, damn, god) as Putin quickly worked Bashar's inches, did Bashar revel in an otherworldly orgasm that he couldn't have thought possible.  
Putin came soon after him, emitting a loud groan as he released inside Bashar.  


There was another bleak pause, before the then-collapsed Bashar said in a strained voice:  


"I-I... Wouldn't mind that dinner after all."  


"We're gonna need a new table, then." Putin chuckled to himself, noting the mess.


End file.
